


none of us are okay

by eyemoji



Series: none of us are okay [1]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: but it's to check if he's an alien, spoilers for theta scenario (ep 48), throwback to time to kill, tw: suicide/suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 09:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11354511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyemoji/pseuds/eyemoji
Summary: “yesterday the duplicate oswin put a gun to his head. said they were tired of, well, everything. but it didn’t work. two days later, there was another flare from procyon and they just… came back. Again.”daniel jacobi is tired.





	none of us are okay

_“yesterday the duplicate oswin put a gun to his head. said they were tired of, well, everything. but it didn’t work. two days later, there was another flare from procyon and they just… came back. Again.”_

 

**jacobi**

 

jacobi is on his guard. incorrect. he’s _guarded_ . he knows there’s a distinction there, one that should matter, but with all the fragments of the _mess_ he’s in swirling around the cabin and threatening to poke his eye out as some form of sick, twisted zero-g retribution, for not seeing clearly kepler’s betrayal-- because that’s what it is, a betrayal, a betrayal of the words and mouth and lips and _heart,_ of promises made and promises kept and promises that turned out not to be promises at all-- distracting him from having any sort of coherent thought for the past fifty-six hours, he can’t find it in himself to care. Any thoughts that try to grow in the wastelands that count as his “brain” and his “heart” grow short and cropped and clumped and dense until he’s overrun and he can’t breathe he can’t breathe _he can’t breathe_ , _get me out of here launch me into the star let me go home bring_ **_her_ ** _home it’s not fair she should be here she trusted_ **_us_ ** _and i let her down we don’t give up because we’re_ **_scared_ ** _, daniel, but fuck it all alana i’m scared and i need you and how dare you not be around to save me again? how dare i not be around to save you? how dare--_ he sucks in a breath, longs for fresh, sweet, clean air to fill his lungs and clear out the rot that’s grown inside him, the mold that’s sprouted from the spores of _death_ and _decay_ and _doom_ that the hephaestus seems to mass produce; but there’s only more of that for him here, in this makeshift brig, alone with just kepler and his not-hand and his not-thoughts and the not-air, and with every stuttering breath he draws, he gives himself up to the knots of despair and denial and detachment, the ropes of _not_ that tie him up and force him to answer the one question he doesn’t ever want to think about but which bores into his brain day-in and day-out, if the “days” on this infernal station even count as real: _are you him? are you not-jacobi?_ and he doesn’t know, he _doesn’t know,_ he swears, but he _thinks_ he’s real; he _wants_ to be real, and goddamnit, can’t that be enough?

 

no.

 

he knows the truth, can feel it deep in the marrow of his humanoid, if not human, bones, can taste it in the electricity of the air whenever he and lovelace are in a room together, and _no_ , it’s not from hera: there’s only one way to know for sure.

the others are just too weak to consider it. and yes, this includes kepler, it _must_ , because otherwise there’s no logical explanation for why he, daniel jacobi (he thinks, he says, he repeats, as if to convince himself) is still here, in one piece and unharmed, physically. he’s tired of dancing around it, of pretending there’s no problem, nothing to address. zhang confirmed that the clones were physically identical to their counterparts, and now jacobi doesn’t have the promise that was hilbert’s medical examination to count on; it’s just another lie to add to the towering pile, another excuse to keep him loyal. it’s a manipulation game, and jacobi can’t deny that kepler’s used it well; to keep lovelace on her toes (though he hadn’t known _she_ didn’t know,) to keep jacobi loyal (though he hadn’t known if jacobi had a reason not to be,) to make a point to them all that he was still on top and in charge (though he hadn’t known how things would so dramatically change within the month.) there’s a lot of things kepler hadn’t known, jacobi’s beginning to realize, a lot of things he still doesn’t know, and an even greater number of things he pretends to know, however improbable. and all it amounts to, as the maraschino cherry on top of jacobi’s fucked-up-and-sideways life-- his life, definitely _his_ life-- is a man standing on a crumbling pedestal of honor and loyalty and pride who can’t even pretend to promise jacobi this one last thing, that he still matters, is _necessary_ . isn’t that what they all want, up here? he muses, to be recognized and validated and told _i need you;_ we _need you_ . and as kepler falls further and further into the deep black void that is his own recompense, jacobi no longer feels the pull to try and save him, to tell him that _he’s_ still here and ready and willing to take any damn order kepler feels like giving him; to submit himself as a puppet for kepler’s symphony, his grand orchestrations conducted with swagger and bravado and which end up as nothing more than john cage’s 4’33’’. and in the midst of it all, in between the empty spaces that count as jacobi’s shifting affiliations, lies the hole in his head that counts as himself, his sense of identity and _who i am. who am i?_ he asks himself night after night in the cramped room, illuminated only by the lucidity of his thoughts when he’s alone, when kepler consists of just pounds of flesh and gentle breathing, when he’s at his most vulnerable and yet jacobi feels the least motivation to lash out, to hurt him like he hurt jacobi, to hurt him like he let maxwell get hurt.

 

 _alana,_ he thinks again, tripping over her name in his mind as he tries to tiptoe around it, to honor her by immortalizing her name, worshipping her as not merely as his-- _his_ \-- best friend but also for her _mind_ , for the way it fit perfectly into her soul like lock and key, because she knew what she wanted to be even as she shut down the past; she knew what she _was_ . and it’s not fair, that someone so brave and strong and smart and steadfast should be allowed to go so easily, so quickly; as fast as her mind used to race, he doubts she would have had the time to understand what was happening, to realize that, when it mattered the most, she had been _wrong_ . in those fractions of a second between the tensing of minkowski’s finger and the moment of impact, in the time it took for the shockwave to travel and deliver a mind-shattering blow packed with too much energy for one person to handle, she wouldn’t have been able to calculate the staggering odds that this scenario would have played out as it did; or maybe she already had; she already had and it was decreed in the ancient language of mathematics that the chances were just so small that she forgot to remember that _infinitesimal_ doesn’t mean _none_.

 

in a way, the failures of these two people closest to him signify the beginning of the end for jacobi. after all, every trilogy needs a thrilling conclusion, and all things good and bad come in threes, and so how will the tragedy of daniel jacobi end? kepler has dug himself deeper into the hellhole he came from with every scrabbling attempt he’s made to rocket himself back up; maxwell effectively killed herself by refusing to consider any alternatives (and yes, it hurts to phrase it like that, but for his own self-degrading purposes that works out just fine;) and jacobi has been wary of both these things, hides every statement of value he might have behind a screen of sarcasm that spills out of his mouth and into his dreams, taunting him-- and will this be how he goes? it’s fitting, he supposes; kepler fell by placing his trust solely on his ability to sustain power (with lies and misdirection and secret-keeping, though none of that’s relevant in the moment,) maxwell died because she placed all her trust in her numbers, in her odds, in her ability to calculate her way through a situation (she _failed_ , and jacobi is still bitter, bitter that he couldn’t warn her, bitter that he had so much faith in her, and he tries not to let it bother him how accurately that last bit could apply to kepler as well,) and so it would be true dramatic irony if jacobi’s sarcasm is to be the thing that betrays him, if it twists his words so far that he no longer knows what he means; or, worse, that the others don’t know what he means and take action as they see fit.

 

he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much, this whole betrayal thing. he has exactly zero qualms about dying, about being ripped apart by the star’s gravity, or in his sleep, gently, against all odds, or with a bullet wound straight to the head, like maxwell-- except by his own hand. that part’s important. he’d rather kill himself than be killed by one of these five others, be it through murder or an unanimously agreed-upon _honorable discharge_. perhaps it has something to do with trust. trust in daniel jacobi, who he may or may not be. he was never in the military.

 

_i am not what i am. [ 1]_

 

 _there’s a solar flare due at around oh-five-hundred hours,_ minkowski tells them all, and jacobi ignores the way she avoids his gaze. this is his chance, and he realizes it suddenly and all at once, _this is his chance,_ not-- to make things right, as impossible as _that_ is, but to find an answer, once and for all. he’s dying to know, one way or another.

 

even as the others mutter and gasp and mull around, trying to find a solution for a problem they can’t quite see, can’t even begin to understand, jacobi slips away. it’s easier than it should be, really, considering he’s their prisoner, and they’re lucky in that when he heads for the armoury, he’s not moving with any intent to move against them. it’s when he finally reaches the narrow door that he runs into his first obstacle: captain isabel lovelace. huh. so maybe someone _is_ caring. he shouldn’t feel the rush of warmth that passes through him after that little révélation, but he can’t stop it from happening as he gazes at captain lovelace, making direct eye contact. she’s leaning against the door, as much as one can in zero gravity, and her arms are folded squarely across her chest, but her eyes aren’t confrontational. not yet, at least. she cocks her head, lets her body language do all the questioning: _what the hell do you think you’re doing?_

 

jacobi tries to answer cleanly and succinctly, ever the good boy; he really does. but this is one of those times where his mouth feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton and his jaw’s been sewed shut because how do you explain to the only known alien aboard the station that you don’t feel quite confident in your status as a human? that if you’re not, you’ve decided that you might as well give up? that you’re not like her, not as resilient as everyone seems to think you’ll be, and maybe the sarcasm _is_ working too well if it’s giving off that aura to the rest of them, not that you care what the rest of them think ~~even though you do, somehow~~ ? how do you explain that you’re on a mission to find out once and for all, and that the outcome, if you die, won’t affect anyone, except maybe kepler, who might increase in irritation as he finds himself with no one to prattle on to about how unbelievably _impressive_ he is?

 

the answer is, apparently: you don’t. lovelace stares right back into his eyes, and as she does, she seems to just _know_ . maybe she recognizes a bit of herself there, even though she’s more like maxwell and kepler than she’ll ever be like him, what with her confidence and charm and ability to lead, _true_ leadership, better than anything minkowski or kepler ever pretended to have; she’s intelligent, too, and it is this more than anything that causes jacobi to relax just the slightest amount, to let his body fully betray his intentions, because of that little shred of _alana_ he finds in her. the exchange is perfect, wordless, ideal. she hands him the gun she normally keeps at her waist. in return, he ~~does not shoot her~~ dips his head just the slightest bit in acknowledgement. she is giving something up for him here, he knows, something more than just the physicality of the gun in his hand. if he is caught, she loses their trust.

 

if he stays dead, she will still lose their trust. he tries not to wonder about the implications of that.

 

as he passes her, she making no move to stop him, he tells her where he’ll be, in a sudden rush of gratitude (or something as near-resembling the emotion as possible, considering he doesn’t really _feel_ things anymore.) where she can find him, if things go the way he hopes (it’s a twisted sort of hope, a hope unrecognizable as such to any soul back down on earth who hopes to try and understand the situation.) she doesn’t acknowledge his words. he knows she’s heard anyways.

 

he makes his way to the engine room, floating alone and seemingly aimlessly, just like the daniel jacobi that walked into a bar five years ago with only one idea in mind and the determination to get it. it’s a full reset, he’s come full circle, except for the fact that this time, daniel jacobi is not afraid of breaking other things. he only wishes to keep from breaking himself. he reaches the door and pulls it open, moves inside, all the while startlingly conscious of the fact that this is where everything went wrong for the tiamat back in 1978; this is the room where the clones revealed themselves; the room that exploded one too many times to stop a horror story; the room that betrayed them, in the end, or where they were betrayed, with course _corrections_ that were only _wrong_ , haunting a captain who, if she was to be believed, had stood steadfast and alone through far too much. it’s a different ship but heading for the same old story, and for the briefest section of a second he lets himself _care_ , lets himself wonder which time through this mission will count as; how many people has goddard futuristics killed through aliens alone; how many more until the last?

 

the moment does not last. he’s in the engine room because it’s loud and will cover up the sound. because it’s practical. not because he’s drawn to it by some mysterious reason. his fingers curl around the grip of the gun. it’s heavy, in his hand, the only thing of substance he’s felt since coming out of the module that day, now so long ago, with three other people and still so desperately alone. he clicks the safety off. his hands do not shake. there is nothing to look at as he cleanly lifts the gun up to just below eye level, as if he’s shooting something else, doing some target practice. but he’s not here to exact vengeance on the already-failing machinery of the hephaestus. he takes his left hand off of the gun. raises it up to rest against the side of his head. he still feels nothing. why does he feel nothing? he takes a deep breath to steady his nonexistent nerves. closes his eyes.

 

and it’s then, in the milli-milliseconds before he carries out his plan, before he does away with whatever makes up this iteration of daniel jacobi, whether it be the first and last, or the second of many to come, that the feelings come rushing back, the feelings, which he hasn’t felt since maxwell’s death, since kepler gave in, since he’s been trapped in a tiny cell with nothing important except the thoughts crowding the parts of his brain he’s been trying to forget; he’s scared, _oh god_ he’s scared; what if he’s wrong, what if he’s right, what if he’s not coming back tonight when the flare hits; in the wee hours of the early morning will lovelace return to find simply his broken body scattered all over the warm flooring of the engine room? what if--

 

_i look down towards his feet; but that's a fable._

_if that thou best a devil, i cannot kill thee. [_ _2]_

 

his fingers twitch and there’s a bang, but he can’t hear it; he’s already so far away…

 

****

 

he wakes up alone, not unexpectedly but disappointingly, somewhat. he’s not sure if the disappointment comes from the loneliness or the fact that _he’s still here_ , that it didn’t work, that he’s not _him_.

 

 _i bleed, sir; but not kill’d. [_ _3]_

 

the gun is gone, somewhat unexpectedly, though it’s true that lovelace hardly could have left it around. after all, he’s back, now. what will that mean for the rest of them? he doesn’t know. he still doesn’t care. he picks at the dried blood spattered on his shirt, sits alone in the engine room immersed in the humming and clunking and steady _going-on_ of the motors, tries to draw inspiration from their emotionless plodding.

 

and with every stuttering breath he draws, he gives himself up to the knots of despair and denial and detachment, the ropes of _not_ that tie him up and force him to answer the one question he doesn’t ever want to think about but which no longer will bore into his brain day-in and day-out; it will only bore him, to respond to the question curling around the others’ minds; the others, with their convoluted politics of _personhood_ and _rights_ and _morality_ ; the others, who will never outright ask, only hem and haw and avoid the words: _are you him? are you not-jacobi?_

 

yes.

**Author's Note:**

> the footnoted quotes are all taken from shakespeare's Othello  
> 1- act i, sc i, line 67  
> 2- act v, sc ii, lines 336-337  
> 3- act v, sc ii, line 339
> 
> [eyes emoji]


End file.
